


Rectrices

by Tridraconeus



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alex lives, Angel lives, Gen, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Wacky Friend Adventures, and kurt's 'porting powers make sure he won't get anywhere fast, and pizza, angel is rescued by the xmen, basically a biiiiig middle finger to canon and everything canon stands for, kurt gets stuck chaperoning warren everywhere because they still don't trust him, post-movie canon divergent, the warren redemption au that absolutely nobody wants but you're getting anyways, they go to the mall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They dig Warren out of the wreckage. They pour time into making sure he’ll survive, and when he wakes they try to integrate him into life at Xavier’s school. Life, period, actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Maybe Empty

**Author's Note:**

> important notes: Warren has claustrophobia. Warren has PTSD. Warren will not be sunshine and roses and Warren will not recover in a pretty and linear fashion.

_(You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie_   
_[] May you find some comfort here)_

“Nightcrawler? _Were you—how long were you waiting here_?” The words, though slurred, were a comfort to Kurt; his English was fine, by now, but he hadn’t heard any German besides the halting and awfully accented in a long time.

“A while.” Regardless of how nice to hear it was, though, there were appearances to keep up. “I was set to guard you. I’m the only one who can get in and out.”

Angel— _Warren_ , Kurt corrected himself—sat up slowly and rubbed his head, wings fanning out behind him and tips brushing the concrete ground. There wasn’t enough power behind them to do more than skim through a slim amount and scrape up shavings of concrete, leaving behind little furrows in their wake. “ _There’s no door_.”

“And reinforced glass. We put you in here and took you off the drip so you’d wake up. There’s food for you if you’re ready, but it’s in the main dining hall. Fair warning, you might throw up. Your body isn’t… used to solid food. It’s been a while.”

“ _How long’s it been_?” Warren stared at him owlishly, eyes wide. Cartoonishly so, almost, but—

So wide. So blue.

Kurt’s tail curled up, unwound. Warren’s eyes morphed from wide to slitted, glaring, looking more like a caged beast than ever.

“ _Schie_ _ß_ _e_ , tell me!” Warren made as to scramble to his feet, managed to get onto his hands and then went back down, wings quivering; a few errant feathers sloughed off and clattered to the floor. One embedded itself an inch deep, quill to the ceiling. Kurt stepped back, held up his hands to hopefully calm Warren down. He’d learned—from Hank, from the others, to never antagonize a wounded animal. _Especially_ one with the means to fight back. The cornered boy bared his teeth and scored the ground with the tips of his wings, flushed from the effort (and failure) of his trying to stand. 

 “It’s been three months.” He waited, then, watched how Warren’s wings quivered and shed a few more razor feathers. “My name is Kurt Wagner. We didn’t… have an opportunity to introduce ourselves properly before, no?” 

He held out his hand. Warren, understandably wary, stayed on the ground. “I’m not going to do anything.” Kurt smiled. “X-Men’s honor.” 

 Warren curled his lip and looked away, but finally took Kurt’s hand and stood. He shook, for a little bit, wings stretching out to help stabilize himself. “What’s your name?”

He knew, of course, but…  Warren might appreciate it. 

“They called me Angel. I was Apocalypse’s Archangel. I… don’t know what I am now.”

“You must have had a name before that.” Kurt’s eyes widened and he leaned in, tilted his head, smiling in a way that was hopefully disarming and not creepy.

Or predatory.

Luckily, Warren didn’t seem to have any problems with it, and he simply stared Kurt down. “I… my name is Warren Worthington.” 

“It’s nice to meet you properly, Warren.” Kurt grinned, sharp canines poking out over his bottom lip. Warren didn’t change his expression at all. Kurt’s tail wound around in the air behind him and drew Warren’s eye for a few seconds; Kurt made it dance, a little, bounced it in a loop. The younger mutants loved it. Warren too, apparently. 

“You too.” 

He finally looked up and nodded curtly. “—you said you had food?”

Kurt brightened, ears flicking up in pleased surprise. He was cooperating! It wasn’t that Kurt had expected a brawl, but—

Warren hadn’t given him many chances to see a softer side of him in the past. “Oh, yes! We’re going to have to ‘port to the dining hall, though.” 

He held out his hand. Warren frowned, but realizing that he’d have to (no doors, dammit) reluctantly took Kurt’s hand.

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

“ _I had plenty of time to get used to it with you trying to shake me off back in Cairo_.”

The sullen lapse back into German prompted a sigh from Kurt, and he ‘ported them to the dining hall without much further chitchat. Warren stood, stiff as a board. Clearly, ‘porting was not his cup of tea. Too bad. He shook out of it to look around the dining hall, with the arched ceiling and cafeteria nudged into a corner. Some of the younger mutants were already there for an early dinner, and they looked close to excitedly mobbing Kurt—the imposing presence of Warren, and no doubt the warnings to stay away from him, insured some privacy. 

“Food’s over there. Would you like me to come with you?”

“Don’t patronize me, Nightcrawler.” His eyes narrowed. Kurt held up his hands again.

“My name’s Kurt. I’ll be over there with the children.”

With that, he let Warren make his own way to the food line. Sure enough, as soon as Warren and his bristling wings left the general vicinity Kurt found himself mobbed by a dozen excited preteens.

“Ah! Hello!”

“—my friend? Oh, he just woke up. He’s a little bit disoriented, so give him his space, alright?”

“Haha, yes, you are good children. Go eat your dinners.”

He walked through them to a chorus of _bye bye, Nightcrawler_! and made his own way to the food line. Warren had already gotten himself a bowl of soup and some potato cakes. Kurt leaned over and tapped him. 

“Ah, Warren, where did you find the _Kartoffelknödel_?” 

Warren pointed. _At the beginning of the line_.

“Thank you.”  

It took a minute, but he finally loaded his plate and hunted down Warren. A table had cleared, and he was sitting alone—Kurt plopped down next to him and gestured at one of the tables with his favorite students. There was a riot of whispering, and finally they all moved over to crowd around Kurt and Warren.

For a while, it looked like Warren was going to up and leave— 

 But he kept quiet and ate his greasy pancakes, so Kurt declared that a victory.


	2. Terror Dizzy Spells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(

_(But I’m feeding with the enemy, I’m in league with the foe_  
_Blame me for what’s happening, I can’t try, I can’t try, I can’t try)_

 

It wasn't Nightcrawler's fault. Warren had said it himself; _fight or they'll kill us both!_

Hell, he'd even introduced himself properly, and let Warren out of the reinforced _box_ that he'd woken in. **Warren** was the one acting impolitely. 

But there was still panic. There wasn't anything he could do-- he was stuck here, in this place, surrounded on all sides with children and facing him, Nightcrawler. He tried to do more than stare down into the small puddle of grease and butter forming on his plate, he really did, but all he could think about was being slammed into the electrified fence and dragged, **raked** down it, feathers ripped from his skin, bones bared to the outside world, and screaming out his agony as the crowd of repugnant gorehounds cheered. Before that, when he lost, they’d curse out whoever had dared to get lucky; but his wings had been white and glorious then, not ratty and singed. He spat out curses and threats, not screams. The scent of burned flesh only filled the arena when it was his opponent’s. Blood, too, if Warren didn’t let them nick him for the show of it.

( **They** liked it when his opponent thought they had a chance. It meant the bidding went up, it meant that Warren’s value raised.)

(How much was he worth now?)

(A lot, if the X-Men took him in.)

Warren didn't notice he was staring down blankly at his _kartoffel_ until Kurt tapped him on the arm. 

“Hey, _knödelmeister_ , dinner ends in five minutes. When you finish, just take your plates to that sink back there and wipe them down so the cleaning crew doesn’t have so much work to do.”

Everyone from their table was gone but Kurt. _Kurt_ was sitting across from him patiently, smiling. Warren hastily finished his _kartoffel_ , fork scraping against the plate with each harried pass, and finally stood to ferry his dishes to the big sink in the back. It took a few seconds to wash the plate and fork, but sure enough he soon set them down with the other semi-clean ones. Kurt followed behind him at an easy meander, not quite hovering but--

Close.

“Okay, do you want to go take a shower and get into some better clothes now? I thought you might like to eat first. And now you'll be near a toilet in case you have to puke!”

Warren grunted an affirmation. 

Kurt grabbed him by the elbow, and with a poof they disappeared from the dining hall. Warren staggered a few steps forward when they reappeared, wings fluttering to help balance him. Kurt pointed towards a shower stall; at least Warren wouldn’t be expected to use a communal shower! Small mercies, right?

“Take as long as you need, okay? I’m going to go get you some clean clothes.”

In the shower, Warren stripped out of the clothes he’d woken up in. They weren’t special—plain gray sweatpants and briefs, white shirt with scissor-made holes in it to accommodate his wings. No shoes. He’d been walking around barefoot, all drab and gray, silver and sharp, in this mansion with all its color.

No wonder the children had been so quick to leave the table.

When he showered in the past, he’d pay special attention to his wings; they secreted their own oils to stay sleek, of course, but sometimes letting the water down to the skin beneath and taking some time to preen in the spray made him feel…

Well, like an angel.

Now, if he tried to touch his wings, his fingers would be shredded into a bloody mist.

Apocalypse had given him power, yes, but he’d stripped away some of his humanity in return. (Maybe not humanity—but something else that made Warren _Warren_ , confident and brash and loving fighting for the thrill of it and not for the pain.)

He couldn’t tell if the hot spray coursing down his face was from the shower head, or if he was crying.

No. He was crying. He hadn’t _cried_ since the first night they’d thrown him in the filthy cage with the wooden rafters, mutters of _pretty pretty angel_ ringing in his ears and phantom arms clutching his arms tight enough to bruise.

By the time he came out of the shower, he was a fine red and his wings steamed. Kurt was sitting in a corner reading, and didn’t seem to pay attention to him. But Warren knew that he was being observed, and so grabbed the towel to dry himself as quickly as possible, and pulled on the underwear, pants, socks, and shoes provided.

“Oh! Warren! I have to show you your shirt. It’s special-made, so you can put it on.”

Kurt ‘ported right in front of him and held out a shirt—it was a dull red, more like a sunset than blood, and it had a zipper down the back that stopped around three-fourths of the way up to leave holes for his wings. “Do you like it?”

“—it looks very sensible.”

“ _Ja_! Put it on and we’ll go meet up with the others!”

“—the others?”

(And sure enough, after a half hour of hemming and hawing and fussing with his new shirt that Warren didn’t have to rip up to fit into--)

“Whoa, is this Angel?” The blond stared him down, a small smile quirking his lips; he didn’t look mad, but Warren could definitely remember thinking about gutting him with his feathers before Apocalypse warped them out of there and he—

blew shit up. 

“Alex Summers. Formerly known as Havok, currently retired and  **trying**  to get into college.” 

The kid next to him—it was unfair to call him a kid. He was probably around Warren’s age—nodded. Warren couldn’t tell anything past his glasses, and didn’t know if that was an issue or not. Did he care? No.

 _Definitely_  not.

“I’m Scott. Summers.”

“My younger brother.” Alex grinned and ruffled Scott’s hair. “We’ve got the same mutation, but mine’s a little less of an eyesore.” 

Scott groaned. Warren exhaled something that could’ve been a laugh, but then Scott was talking and so he quieted down. Even more. “Ha-ha. I’m laughing. I gotta go to class, Alex. I don’t know why we had to see him  **anyways**.” There was an edge of mutiny coloring his tone, but he left without incident.

“—sorry about my brother. He… well, he still hasn’t forgiven you for teaming up with Apocalypse and trying to kill the Professor and a lot of other people. Me included.”

“And you have?” Warren met his eyes. He wasn’t getting the same murderous vibes that Scott fairly radiated—this was darker. A smolder.

“Getting there. We’ll see how you fit into life here, huh?”  

“…yes.”

Kurt, standing behind Warren, stamped his foot lightly. “Good! You two are acquainted. Alex, is Jean around?”

“I think she’s with the Prof right now. Pietro’s running around the track, if you wanna go meet him, though! Have fun, you guys.” Alex grinned at Kurt. Warren felt distinctly looked over, and not just because Kurt had several inches on him; by the time Warren turned to look at Kurt, Alex was long gone.

“So, up to one more? It’s getting near curfew.”

“One more.”

Kurt smiled, grabbed Warren’s shoulder, and they ‘ported to the track. Sure enough, Pietro skidded to a stop a minute later, loped over to them like a wolf; big, dopey smile on his face that canceled out and intimidation Warren might have felt.

“Kurt! And—Angel, was it?”

“Yes. My name is Warren.” He couldn’t help the stiffness; this was the one who’d cleaned up the Cerebro mess and rescued everyone in the building.

“Hey, Warren. Well, I’m gonna go back to running.”

And—gone.

“…that was a little awkward.” Kurt rubbed his face. “Time to go back. Grab on.”

Warren obligingly held Kurt’s shoulder, and in a blink they were back in the room Warren woke up in. “Hold on a tick.”

Snap. Snap. Kurt was back, hands in his pocket.

“I, uh,” Kurt squirmed, suddenly nervous, toes curling against the ground and tail swirling out curlicues into the air behind him. Warren eyed him, wings shuttering up close against his back with a light clink. He knew how much the blue boy could do; he also knew that he’d much rather run away if things got hairy. As if he were suddenly expecting Warren to go crazy. “ _I got you a_ Zagnut.”

The German was a peace offering; Warren didn’t quite relax, but he didn’t get much tenser, either. “What’s a Zagnut?”

Kurt’s face screwed up like a man trying to fold a shirt with his mind.  _You’re not Jean Grey_  died in Warren’s throat, and he finally did smile, the slightest bit; Kurt smiled back, shrugged, and reached into his red jacket to pull out a plastic-wrapped bar and toss it to Warren. “It’s candy. I thought you might like it. Ah—goodnight, Warren.”

“Goodnight, Kurt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D! more coming!


	3. Don't Try To Catch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this just in: Warren is weird and hurting

_(I don’t speak your, I don’t speak your language, oh no_   
_I don’t speak your, I don’t speak you, Jesus Christo)_

“Warren.” Kurt stood at the foot of his mattress, tail resting on the end to nudge Warren's feet. Warren groaned and rolled over, wings blocking out anything but the warmth of the bundle of blankets and pillows. It was amazing, really, how quickly he’d made a mess of the place. 

“ _Warren_. I want to ask you something, and you need breakfast.” 

Oh, God, more time around those hyperactive children. 

Kurt, though not a telepath, seemed to read his mind. “And we're gonna eat with the older kids, this time! You haven't met Jean or Jubilee, and I think Evan would like to meet you.”

 Warren fluttered his wing in a warning, then rolled off of the mattress and onto the floor. 

“Uh-- I'll ‘port outside and let you dress. Just tap on the window when you're done, okay?”

Warren nodded, still facedown. Kurt ‘ported away in a cloud of blue smoke, and only then did Warren flap his wings once, powerfully, and alight onto his feet. Getting dressed was quick enough after that, taking his time to wrestle with the zipper-- he could put it on by himself, it didn't rip, it was _comfortable_. It wasn't that he minded going shirtless, but...

This, somehow, made him feel better than that ever had. 

He tapped on the window. In a literal flash, Kurt appeared in front of him. “Ready? Good! Let's go.”

In the back of his mind, Warren thought Kurt seemed a little _too_ eager to get into the company of others. Who wouldn't be? He'd likely been assigned to watch over Warren; not the best job. The least he could do would be playing along and pretending that everything was alright here.

Breakfast, at least, went quickly. Warren didn’t stare into his scrambled eggs and think about the pus that had clung to his singed wings, built up in the exposed sores that never seemed to clean out all the way. Didn’t, luckily, shed feathers everywhere.

Jean said hello, and then went back to her own table—with Scott, Alex, Pietro, and a few others that Warren didn’t recognize.

He didn’t mind. Kurt went to sit with them, too, after realizing that Warren really wasn’t one for conversation.

He didn’t mind that either.

After putting his dishes and utensils under the water, scrubbing them, and setting them onto the semi-clean pile, he went back to his table and waited. There—

Wasn’t anything else to do. Kurt knew his way around, and Warren had a sneaking suspicion that he was being _watched_. His suspicion became much less sneaking as Kurt bade his cheery goodbyes to the rest of his teammates and ambled on over to Warren, tension formerly present in his shoulders completely gone, tail winding happily behind him.

“Warren! I thought I’d show you around the grounds a little more. I mean, we saw some people, but I haven’t showed you all the places I like yet.”

“…sounds good to me.”

“Let’s walk.” Kurt didn’t seem one-hundred percent confident calling the shots, but he did take to leading Warren around like a puppy on a leash as if he were a natural. “My favorite isn’t too far of a walk!”

So Warren walked, behind Kurt, staring at his feet—paws?—softly padding on the stone pathway. He didn’t even try to ask if he could _fly_. Either way, they ended up at a large stone building shortly. As soon as they walked in, Warren recognized it as a cathedral. So, they’d actually been walking for a while—out of the Institute’s bounds. Warren idly wondered if Kurt would get in trouble for that. But for now, he simply held his biting comments and merely took in the impressive sight of the arching stone and dignified stained glass windows.

“You’re religious?” Warren looked up at the crucifix mounted above the altar, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Yes. And besides, I like coming here. It’s peaceful.” Kurt’s ears twitched at each sound, amplified in the formerly-silent nave.

Warren walked over to one of the pews and finally took one hand out of his pocket, rested it on the backrest and sat down. Kurt padded over to sit next to him. “Is that why you saved me?”

“ _Was_?” Kurt looked over to him, hands clasped neatly together in his lap. 

“Catholic duty. Saving sinners, stewardship. Redemption, and all that.” Warren kicked the kneeler. Kurt put a hand on his knee, and not even a short-lived death glare managed to dislodge it. 

Kurt’s voice wavered and he looked up, ears pitched back, tail curling around his ankle. “No. I don’t think so. It wasn’t all my decision.”

Warren huffed and leaned back, though he considerately kept his wings from shaving the pew to splinters. 

“Are you religious?” Kurt didn’t look at Warren, and instead stared at the stained glass mural; a dove, descending over Christ. The blues of the River Jordan puddled over the pews, the crucifix; the red of the setting sun cast over Warren’s silvered wings. 

“They put me in a cage and called me an angel. And they made me fight, kill people for some  _verdammt_  game.” Warren held the seat of the pew; knuckles white from how hard he was gripping the edge. Kurt squeezed his knee. When he spoke, his voice was softer, but no less steady.

“ _Do you have a God_?” 

“ _I **had**  a crisis of faith_.”

Warren crossed his arms, nails digging into the flesh of his biceps. Kurt’s hand didn’t leave his knee, and he hooked his foot under the kneeler to pull it down. 

“I’m going to pray. You’re welcome to join me.” Kurt smiled at him and slid off the pew to kneel, tail waving around for a few seconds before it settled on the pew. Warren debated it—would it do anything? 

It would be best to simply wait for Kurt to finish. It wouldn’t do offend with blasphemy, no matter how well-intentioned.

“…want to go back?”

Kurt was already done. Warren looked down at the marble-tiled floor and nodded.

\--back in the grounds, under the shade of a tree. “Well, you’re going to have a physical with Hank tonight! He just wants to check and see if there’s anything off.”

“Thanks.”

Kurt hesitated, no doubt hearing the flat tone Warren made _sure_ to use. “I didn’t mean like…”

“I know what you meant.”


	4. Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate titles: Warren Fucks Up, Oh My God I Am So Sorry, Here We Go Again

(I always thought I might be bad; now I’m sure that it’s true  
‘cause I think you’re so good and I’m nothing like you)

“Okay, so, we've decided that you need new clothes.”

Warren looked up, eyebrow raised incredulously. Scott and Jean stood at his window, and Kurt was next to him. Instead of questioning, Warren simply nodded. 

“And you're going to have to promise not to ruin the paintjob, okay?" 

Again, Warren nodded. Kurt's smile didn't falter, and in a flash they 'ported to the others. It was a short walk to the car, short enough that they didn't run into anybody, and Warren and Kurt piled into the back as Scott took the wheel and Jean claimed shotgun. The yellow abomination rattled to life and pulled out of the driveway. Pillars of brown and green passed them as they made their way to the exit of the institute's grounds, Scott already proving himself an atrocious driver. 

“I don't think this is a good idea.” Warren finally said, even as he thought about how great it would be to own something that wasn't workout clothes. The inhabitants of the car stayed silent even as the car itself valiantly chugged down the road under Scott's less-than-capable hands, and it stayed that way until they merged into the freeway.

“--then give us your sizes and you can hang out in the front.”

Scott grinned. He swerved, missed hitting another car, and Warren, not for the first time, fought the urge to take to the skies and avoid the crazy driving. Jean yelled good-naturedly and smacked Scott's arm-- he shoved her back, and then Kurt 'ported up front to grab the wheel and keep them from swerving directly into a ditch. 

“ _Hör auf! You crazy man_!” The German slipped out accidentally, and Warren's wings flapped uselessly into the air. Kurt 'ported back, and Scott started driving like he actually cared about the lives of the people in the backseat; and finally, with no casualties, they reached the mall. Warren fairly dropped out of the car and kissed the ground; in reality, he merely clung onto the edge of the door and took a while to be thankful for both his wings and solid asphalt.

Scott was just grinning; Warren scowled at him, though it suspiciously lacked any barbs. Kurt finally grabbed both of them by the shoulders and dragged them towards the front doors.

“Okay, so Scott, Jean, and I are going to go get you clothes. Warren, do you want to stay in the front?”

Warren nodded.

“Alright, then!”

The three disappeared into the bustling knot of humanity, leaving Warren to sit down on a bench and stare at the pigeons pecking at crumbs along the ground. It was a fairly uneventful half-hour; but Warren easily was the impatient type, and so he finally rose from the wooden bench and made his way inside.

People gave him a wide berth. Understandable. Jean’s mutation was invisible, Scott’s included only glasses, and Kurt… well, Warren couldn’t conceive anybody wanting to stay away from Kurt once they spent non-violent time around him. Warren was spikes and metal. Warren had a twelve-foot wingspan to worry about, even tucked up against his back. His quiet introspection was ruined in a flash as soon as he paused in the food court. A gasp came from behind him, and he turned, halfway expecting to see things scattering across the floor; as it was, it was _only_ a woman, glaring at him.

Warren, never quite the quailing type, was scared.

“I saw you on T.V! You’re with the mutants that tried to end the world!” 

Warren cringed. His wings furled up tighter, still so sharp and deadly anyways with the razor edges nicking through his shirt. The woman glared at him, and he felt helpless; the way he felt locked up in that electrified cage, forced to fight for cruel men’s entertainment.

In this case, he’d bet on his opponent.  

“You should answer for your crimes! Evil mutants like you should be locked up forever!”

He couldn’t see Kurt. He’d meant to be quick, and find them, and if he couldn’t just go outside, in case something like this happened, but—

He couldn’t take it. Despite how all this reminded him of the sensationalist comics he'd gotten his hands on-- both in Germany and now laying around the institution-- it still stung. 

“Leave me alone!”

With a powerful pulse to get off the ground, Warren shot for the ceiling and crashed through a skylight, forearms taking most of the damage; glass shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, and the people below him screamed. Warren went as high as he could until the air around him thinned, light-headedness started to arrest his body; and then he lowered down. Sirens filled the air. 

His fault.  _This was all his fault_. He set off down the road they’d came in on that yellow car, following it until the messy urban sprawl turned into forest turned into manicured lawns and the stately figure of Xavier’s school.

\--sure enough. They were waiting for him, Scott looking pissed, Kurt looking like a spanked puppy, Jean diplomatically neutral. Warren touched down a few yards away.

“The Professor wants to speak with you.” Scott nodded at him, pointed at the upstairs office.

“—I’ll take him there.” Kurt, eager as always, didn’t even ask for permission before ‘porting to Warren, and then ‘porting them to the office. The Professor was, of course, waiting for them with a few papers spread across the desk. Before anyone else could start speaking, Kurt once again jumped in.

“Professor, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I should have known that the public wouldn’t… receive him well. I left him alone, I didn’t give him any way to contact us--” Kurt pawed at Warren’s shoulder, made a commendable effort at seeming contrite instead of downright pissed. 

“It’s not your fault,” Warren muttered. “They hate me. They’ll never forgive me for what I did.”

“But that wasn’t  **you** \--”

“You don’t know me!” 

His wings quivered, seemingly on the edge of loosing razor-sharp feathers into everything around him. He turned, sharply, door in his sights; Kurt reached for his shoulder again. Warren brushed past him and shoved past the door roughly, wings bashing into the threshold and scoring deep furrows into the wood.

“Let him go.” Xavier watched the door swing on its hinge. Kurt scrunched up his shoulders, looking small despite his gangly frame, and in a puff of blue smoke he disappeared. “Now, Kurt, to discuss—Kurt?”

Xavier sighed. Sometimes, it was best to let things resolve naturally; he wasn't quite sure it was the case with this situation, but...

He had faith in Kurt, not unfounded. 

A hundred feet into the air, Kurt grabbed Warren by the foot-- careful to avoid his wings, and then ‘ported them to the forest below. Warren went careening head-on into a tree and crumpled into a sad little pile in the gnarled roots that breached the ground; Kurt pulled him up, avoiding his wings, to sit him up against the tree. Warren stayed limp and much lighter than any human deserved to be, and let Kurt manhandle him like a doll.

 “And they called  _you_  the devil.” Warren shook his head and turned away. Kurt could hear his throat closing, knew the feeling Warren must be experiencing—tears, building up hot and shameful, twisting up his stomach in hateful (afraid) knots. “When I--”

“Warren. You are no devil. Please, Warren, listen to me--”

“ _Why do you keep trying, Kurt_?” Warren lapsed back into rapid-fire, guttural German as his throat refused to cooperate, tears broke past whatever dam he’d built. “ _Everybody else hates me! Why do you keep trying?”_

“Warren, they do not hate you!” Kurt reached for his knee again, like he had that morning at the cathedral. Warren jerked away as if he’d been burned. 

“You don’t have to fly away. No one’s angry with you.” Kurt thought quickly—what did  **they**  do to keep him in line? What was he scared of? “Nobody’s going to shock you, or shoot you, or shove you in a box. Warren, listen to me.” 

“ _You already keep me in a box_!”

Ah. Right. The room he’d woken up in. 

Kurt hesitated before reaching out towards Warren again.

“There is only one Devil, Warren. You are not him.”

“ _Stop it_!” Warren snarled, twisting around and taking to the air. Kurt 'ported right under him and grabbed his foot again; Warren flicked his wings back, and a razor feather went flying through the air.

It seemed as if it were in slow-motion. Kurt's eyes followed it, and he seemed about ready to 'port away. And then he did, just as soon as the feather embedded itself in his chest. Free from the physical weight, Warren spiraled higher into the sky. 

He couldn't see Kurt. He'd screwed up, royally, and now Kurt _definitely_ hated him. 

He couldn't go back to the institution. The rest of them wouldn't take the information of him injuring their friend well, and Warren didn't fancy being locked up again, or killed. Ororo, at least, gained paltry acceptance from them; she'd betrayed Apocalypse at the last minute. Warren...

Warren's loyalty was hard-won and ill-placed. And now, he'd managed to fuck everything up.

...again. 

**Author's Note:**

> surprised to not see anyone else? They're in later chapters! Which are coming. I'm halfway done with chapter two and have everything up to chapter four plotted out!


End file.
